ashore at the Knitting Swede's was not for me. Young fool, I was, with
all the conceit of my years and inches. Yet I realized clearly enough
I would only be happy with the feel of a deck beneath my feet, and the
breath of open water in my nostrils. I was of the sea, and for the
sea. And if anything were needed to make my decision more certain,
there was the little Jewess. She leaned close, and there was more than
a hint of command in her voice. "Boy, say yes! I want you to, Boy!"

"Boy!" To me, a nineteen-year-old man, who had just been offered a
fighting man's berth! "I want you to," she commanded. I saw more
clearly just what the Swede's offer meant: to spend my days in evil
living, my drugged will twisted about the slim, dishonest fingers of
the wanton; to spend my nights carrying out whatever black rascality
the Swede might command. An ignoble slavery. Not for me!

"I'll only ship in a proper ship, Swede," I said, decisively.

The Swede nodded. My refusal did not disconcert him; I think his
insight had prepared him for it. But the tension in the room released
with a loud gasp of astonishment. It was unbelievable to those bullies
that such an offer could be turned down. A sailorman refusing
unlimited opportunities for getting drunk! "Gaw' strike me blind, 'e
arn't got the guts for hit!" a voice cried at my elbow, and I found the
Cockney openly sneering into my face.

I saw through his motive immediately. Cockney wanted the job, and he
wasn't going to allow the Swede to overlook his peculiar qualifications
a second time. Therefore, he would risk battle with me.

I was nothing loath. I might turn down the job, but I would not turn